


of chickens and men

by gwalchca



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Period-Typical Racism, Starvation, also javier x a bowl of stew (explicit), some of the gang at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwalchca/pseuds/gwalchca
Summary: Dutch is a thief. Not just of chickens, but of more valuable things, too. Expensive goods, smuggled wares. Something like that.Dutch is dangerous. A killer, and a good one.Javier would follow him to the ends of the earth.
Relationships: Javier Escuella & Dutch van der Linde
Kudos: 12





	of chickens and men

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even played this game, but I fell so hard for Javier watching walkthroughs.
> 
> I didn't want to spend ages polishing this litte fic because I would just chicken out (ha) and not post it. I'm sure there are mistakes, I just hope they aren't too annoying.

Javier doesn’t leave his dignity behind when he crosses the mexican border. He holds on to it for weeks, walking from town to town with fear licking at his heels, leaving every place he thinks might welcome him because he cannot stop looking over his shoulder. But what little money he has runs out and hunger starts to set in. His clothes become dirty, then ragged, then they start to fall apart. The country becomes strange and the people around him speak fewer and fewer words of spanish. Still he is too afraid to stop, still he wakes in the middle of the night thinking bounty hunters are out there sharpening their knives and he has to go, now, _now_. And finally there come a place and a time when he throws his dignity at the side of the road and starts using his limited english vocabulary to beg.

 _Please, mister, I’m hungry, I can work_. Those phrases, repeated over and over again, in every possible combination, until someone points him to some simple job, mucking out stables or lifting at a construction site, for a scrap of food he’ll wolf down without tasting. Or until they point to the road with a string of words he doesn’t know but still understands. _Get lost_.

At first, he hates it. What starvation and fear and loneliness does to him. The way he keeps sinking lower, the way whenever he thinks he’s at his lowest point he finds out he’s not, he’s always willing to do some more demeaning task, to bear more insults, to beg more desperately for a bowl of something a pig would balk at. The way he used to think dignity was the last thing a man should lose but he’s thrown it aside for a bit of bread.

But as his face grows gaunt and his eyes sink into their hollows, he stops caring even about that.

“Please, mister, I can work.”

It’s a town somewhere near mountains, with a name he’s seen on signposts but can’t even begin to pronounce, and it starts out promising. There’s a big lumber yard and a river wharf, there’s bound to be jobs that need doing, simple ones that don’t need any explaining. But the man with the important pocketwatch and the look of an overseer scowls and spits words that seem like the _get lost_ kind. Only more colourful.

“Please. I’m hungry, I can work.”

“Get. Out. Of. My. Sight.”

“I can work! I can work, mister, I work.”

The man grabs the the front of his poncho — this sad, dirty old thing he’d throw away if this country wasn’t so damn cold — and starts to walk him away from the wharf, pushing Javier backwards while he babbles on, undeterred: “No, no, _amigo_ , friend, I can work, I work good, I—”

But this is the problem: in spanish, he’s charming. More so back when he was well-dressed and fed and confident, or good enough at pretending he was confident, but even without that, with just the language — in spanish, he’s intelligent. He’s perceptive. He’s eloquent and reliable, a man you can trust to get a job done properly. In english...

 _I work good, mister._ It’s not like he can’t hear himself.

In his mind, Javier wraps his fingers around the man’s throat and throttles him, slowly, laughing as he does so. But in reality he’s too scared, too beat-down to even defend himself with a glare or a rude gesture. He has no friends here, no one who would so much as blink if he was beaten to a pulp in the street. And if he did, does the man he is now has any honour worth defending? So instead he shoves his hands deep into his pockets and walks away, feeling the overseer’s eyes on him all the time, and it’s fear that holds its fingers around his throat, stealing his breath.

He has gone a day and a half without eating. Yesterday, there was a stolen apple and a loaf of mouldy bread. Before that? He doesn’t remember. His stomach feels like a hole, like it’s eating itself.

And it’s getting late. Men are finishing up their work and going home. If the lumber yard across town needs any extra hands it won’t be until tomorrow. Which means there’s a night of hunger in front of him, a sleepless, shivering night, with the fear of imagined bounty hunters the only thing to distract him. Unless he can think of something, but Javier can only think of the food he wants and not on how to get it. His head is foggy, slow, like the river filled with the residue of upstreams industries.

There’s a farm on the riverside, past the wharf. An odd sight, pastures squeezed into the town infrastructure like a remnant from when this was just countryside, chickens picking in the dirt behind the barn. Javier stops. Looks at the chickens. There’s no one around. No one on the river, no one on this side of the wharf. The barn hides him from the view of the main house.

He thinks of chicken soup, chicken stew, chicken grilled over a fire until the meat is tender…

Before he can wonder what the penalty for stealing a chicken is here, if it’s as high as it were in Mexico, if it’s higher because he’s a foreigner, Javier climbs the fence. The chickens scatter from his feet but not far. He looks around. Picks out a big, grey one that seems occupied with looking for worms in the soft soil by the barn wall. If he can just get close enough without startling her…

She’s quicker than he thought, clucking annoyedly as she hops out the way, and Javier curses silently. A small, white hen darts towards him and he bends down to grab her, but grabs thin air as she flaps her way between his feet. _These. Little—_

Javier turns, embarrassed and angry because he’s embarrassed, and spots the grey again by the open barn door. If he can chase her inside he might be able to trap her. There are more chickens inside, he can hear them flapping around, clucking at something or other — yes, that’s his best bet. He bends low and fixates on the grey, _I’ll get you you little fucker_ , herding her towards the barn, slowly, then faster when he loses patience. In the dark inside the barn the grey almost collides with another hen and before he can wonder why it is that a hen is fleeing in the other direction a man comes sprinting after her, head low and arms outstretched like Javier, and they collide with enough force to send them both sprawling on their backs.

“Shit, I—”

“Señor—”

“This ain’t what it looks like—”

“No hice nada—”

“Wait—”

They stare at each other, both on their asses in the dirt blinking away their confusion. The other man doesn’t look like a farmhand. He looks like a thief caught red-handed, trying to figure out in how much trouble they are.

Then he starts laughing.

It’s sudden and sharp and contagious and a moment later, Javier laughs too, a burst of carefree amusement he’d thought he’d forgotten how to feel. The other man — older but still with youthful vigor, the chicken feathers in his black hair giving him a rogue-like charm — jumps to his feet, rattling a stream of words as he brushes dust from his silk waistcoat. Still laughing he pulls Javier up, slapping his back until the dust flies from his jacket. More words, and a question that waits for an answer.

And Javier shrinks a little despite the friendly tone. “No— no english.”

The man pauses, takes a second look. Javier can only imagine what he looks like, dirty and half-starved, small and timid with shame carved deep into the set of his shoulders. Most people would be disgusted, if only because that’s easier than to acknowledge they’re one mishap away from the same fate. But the man doesn’t look disgusted. “Are you hungry? Hungry?” he asks, patting his stomach, miming hunger. Is that concern in his eyes? Pity?

There was a time when Javier would rather have died than been pitied, but it’s very long ago. He nods.

“I see. I, uh…”

“I can work, mister.” The words come out quiet, hushed by shame. Something about laughing made him ashamed of begging again. “I can work.”

The man thinks, for one long, painful moment. And then he smiles, just as easily and carelessly as he laughed, and looks at Javier the way you look at a _man_ , not at a stray dog or a beggar or a dirty foreigner but a man, and says: “Alright. You work, you eat. Okay?”

And Javier could’ve fallen to his knees.

“Gracias, señor, thank you, gracias—”

Together, they trap and catch a chicken — not the grey one, she’s keeping well away from Javier now, looking smug when he leaves — and then they make their quiet escape, laughing and slapping each other’s backs like old friends once they’re out of sight. The man introduces himself with a name — _Dutch_ — that sounds like a sneeze. Javier doesn’t know if that’s his first name or a surname or maybe a nickname, but he figures Escuella is too hard to pronounce, so he simply tells him Javier.

They follow the river out of town until they come upon a small barge drawn up on the bank where the river bends. There’s a horse-drawn wagon waiting a little above it where the ground is level, and two men sitting beside it, one a bit older than Dutch, one younger and more strongly built. They have a fire going and something heating in a pot; the smell of food makes Javier’s legs weak for a moment.

Dutch greets the men like close friends, swinging the chicken around by its broken neck, and brushes away their suspicion at Javier’s presence. He introduces them quickly — Arthur, Hosea. The men take turns pronouncing it with varying success, and then Hosea starts preparing the chicken for the pot while the rest of them gets to work.

It’s a simple enough job, explained mostly by pointing. Arthur stands on the barge, lifting the various crates and barrels over the railing and down to Javier, Javier carries them over the sand to Dutch, who sends them up to Hosea on the wagon. The latter two are constantly talking, planning, shifting things around to make more room and giving each other little jabs followed by warm laughter. Arthur doesn’t seem to mind working in silence. There’s a split second pause every time he hands something heavy to Javier, when he holds on to it just a moment longer than necessary as though he wants to make sure Javier’s got it. Javier is working far harder than his starving body wants, hurrying to keep neither Dutch nor Arthur waiting, desperate to earn his food, and his arms are shaking. Maybe that’s what Arthur’s noticed, but if so he doesn’t say a word. It’s a small thing but it feels like kindness.

They’re halfway done when Dutch calls a halt. Everyone’s tired, sweaty; what’s more, the pieces of chicken Hosea added to the pot are done, and if the vegetables they’d already added are overcooked, really, Javier doesn’t care. He tries to look anywhere but at the stew which Hosea pours into three bowls and one empty can of vegetables, tries to pretend he’s not _that_ hungry, not desperate at least, and anyway he knows they’ll serve him last and least and he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t. But when Dutch shoves the first bowl filled to the brim into his hands, eating from the can himself, when he pats his shoulder as though to say _eat up, you earned it_ — there are tears burning behind his eyelids.

Javier sinks down beside Arthur, his back to the wagon. The others are talking, joking about something, and Javier is perfectly content just sitting there with the bowl in his hands, already thinking of the next spoonful when he swallows down the first. He has to eat slowly, though, or he’ll throw it up later. His body isn’t used to this much food. He forces himself to chew properly, savouring each bite of unseasoned chicken and canned peas like it’s a feast. He presses his spoon into the bowl, watches it fill with broth and tiny circles of fat floating to the surface—

Then everything happens very fast.

A shot rings out, splintering the afternoon peace.

Javier freezes, certain they’ve come for him, all the way from Mexico — but Dutch and the others get to their feet, immediately in action. As though they expected this too. Bullets strike the riverbank making geysers of sand as a dozen men come out of the woods across the bend; Hosea draws a revolver and shoots back, snapping a branch in half. Realizing they’re out of reach, the men kick their horses into a gallop around the bend of the river.

Before Javier comes to his senses, Dutch points to him and barks an order for Arthur, and Arthur picks him up — just collects him from his seat on the ground, bowl of stew an all — and tosses him into the back of the wagon, gesturing for him to get down, _down_. And Javier would never have let it happen if he wasn’t frozen in fear, slow and weak from starvation, but he is and it does and he gets in between the barrells to make room for Arthur while Hosea gets on the driver’s box and Dutch on the third horse. Somehow he doesn’t spill his stew. Somehow he realizes that’s the only thing he cares about. A whip cracks, the wagon jerks forward, picking up speed on the road as the riders come up behind them, Hosea tosses a rifle down to Arthur and behind him, head down, Javier sits cradling his stew thinking _if I die at least I won’t die hungry_. Unarmed and unable to speak with the others, he can’t be of much help anyway. But he can eat.

As far as last meals go, this one tastes of heaven. For a good long while it’s the only thing he can think of.

He’s vaguely aware they’re rattling over a bridge and onto a road that leads towards the mountains. He hears a cry as Arthur hits a man somewhere to the side, and a horse screaming in pain after Dutch fires from the saddle. The rain of bullets over their heads stop for a moment and Javier steals a glance around to see if they’re in the clear. Nope, not clear at all; their pursuers are close behind, just waiting for a clearer line of sight. Javier returns to his stew, because what else is there.

They thunder over another bridge, across a smaller stream that comes cascading down to join the bigger, fouler one, and the wagon has to slow down for the sharp turn on the other side. Dutch is behind them, holding their pursuers off. Suddenly there’s a shot from the trees on the side of the road, on his unguarded flank. Dutch cries out, clutching his shoulder. There’s a roar from Arthur, a shot that strikes the tree beside the man who shot Dutch, sending bark and splinters flying; but the man is unharmed, obscured by the trees. Dutch steers his horse towards the wagon. Hosea pulls him over onto the driver’s box where he slumps on the older man’s shoulder, the rifle he’s somehow held on to falling onto to the seat between them, reins held loosely in his hand. Hosea cracks the whip as the road straightens, the wagon picks up speed, but their pursuers are coming closer and Arthur can’t hold them all off on his own.

Javier sets the empty bowl with the reverence he feels it deserves, and climbs over the barrells until he’s level with the driver’s box. Dutch looks up when he reaches for the rifle, startled, suspicious, holding the weapon with his good hand. Gestures: get back, get your head down.

“I shoot”, Javier says.

Dutch hesitates. Javier wants to say it’s alright, I know what I’m doing, you need me to survive this and I want to survive this, but those are too many words he doesn’t know. He tries to say it with his eyes instead, meeting Dutch’s gaze steadily, calm despite the chaos around them. It’s a tense sort of calm, but one he’s familiar with. He’s not afraid. This, he knows. “I shoot”, he repeats.

Dutch lets go of the rifle.

Javier reloads with practiced ease. It’s been weeks but it takes no time to remember, his hands know every moment, _this_ is a language he speaks. He searches for the man who shot Dutch, but he’s weaving through the trees, too smart to be caught that easily. Another one gets close and Javier swivels, shooting the horse out from under the attacker; both goes down screaming, the man behind nearly trampling them. Javier grins. It’s a flash of teeth, hungry again but for blood this time. The thrill, the violence, the man he once was.

He shoots another man in the shoulder, sending him reeling off the path, then ducks as a bullet whistles past his ear, someone coming up on the side of the cart. Arthur gets him first, sending Javier a look: _we’ve got this_.

Hosea shouts something, a warning before the cart rattles over some bump in the road, Dutch uses his good arm to grab Javier as he loses balance. Another bullet flies over his head and there’s the man who shot Dutch, forced to close in on them as the ground gets rocky. Exposed now, face hard under the brim of his hat. _You motherfucker._ Why he cares about Dutch Javier doesn’t know, but then, why does Dutch care about him?

Javier lifts his head. Steadies the rifle on the edge of a barrel. They’re in each others’ line of sight, both waiting for the right moment. _It’s you or me then, friend_. Within fractions of a second both shots go off: a bullet grazes Javier’s temple, drawing blood, and the man’s face implodes in red, folding into the skull, throwing him backwards off the horse. Seeing it the other men lose what little incentive to follow they have left, halting or slowing one by one as the wagon continues up the slope. Dutch cheers, laughing like a madman, slapping Javier’s back like they’re old friends, and somehow it feels like they are, somehow it feels like it’s always been them, and Javier’s always been here, in the thrill of this moment and the drunken reverie of Dutch’s approval.

The rest of the ride is quiet.

They leave the wagon and its load at an inconspicuous farmhouse in the midde of nowhere, where a quiet man hands Hosea a thick wad of bills before waving them off. Javier asks no questions, wouldn’t have even if he’d known how to phrase them. They leave the draft horses with the wagon and Arthur goes to saddle two which they must have left here earlier, and Hosea binds Dutch’s arm. He’s good to ride, so Hosea gets on his own horse and Arthur points Javier to his.

“Can you ride, at least?”

“Huh?”

"Ride. Can you?"

"Ride, no. Sorry." 

"Christ." Arthur sighs. “Come here, then, I’ll get you up.”

It’s the first time he’s on a real horse, not just a donkey like they had in the village back home. He wraps his arms tightly around Arthur and pretends not to understand his complaints.

They ride through rocky woodland, along several narrow roads each seeming to lead in a new direction, until Javier has no idea how to find his way back. No one could find them here, he realizes. Not the men from town, not bounty hunters with their sharp knives in the dark. He feels something unwind in his chest, something that has been coiled around his lungs for so long he had forgotten about it until it comes loose. He’d forgotten he could breath this deeply.

Come nightfall they arrive at a small farm, or what once was a farm — the field is overgrown and the barn roof half collapsed, but people have lived there for a while. A young, dark-haired woman is hanging laundry up in front of the house as they arrive, and a gangly youth, no older than Javier, is cleaning his gun on the front porch. When they start shouting, another woman runs out of the house into Dutch’s one-armed embrace, and a man even larger than Arthur walks over from the chopping block by the barn. There’s excited hollering over the money and concerned mutters over Dutch’s injury, which he yields like a trophy, laughing away their worry.

Javier hangs back, unsure what to do with himself. He didn't expect there to be so many people, and he's already dreading their questions. No one has told him what will happen now. He doesn't know how to ask.

But one thing he knows.

Dutch is a thief. Not just of chickens, but of more valuable things, too. Expensive goods, smuggled wares. Something like that.

Dutch is dangerous. A killer, and a good one.

If given the chance, Javier would follow him to the ends of the earth.

* * *

“Another stray, is it?” Susan asks, sorting through the newcomer’s clothes for something salvageable. Javier — now in a shirt John grew out of three years ago, which Susan saved for scraps — is sleeping in a corner of the big room, a fitful and troubled sleep. “You sure know how to find ‘em, Dutch.”

“He’s older than they usually are”, Hosea says, lighting a cigarette. “Though on the other hand we don’t just need to teach this one to read — we need to teach him to speak.”

“He’ll learn”, Dutch says. “He’s smart. He saved my life already, you know it, Hosea. I've known the boy for half a day and he already saved my life.”

“I know it.”

"So he's good for something, at least." Susan rips the buttons from a threadbare shirt and throws the fabric on the fire. No use trying to mend something that's coming apart like that. “And what does he do?”

"He steals chickens, for one. He shoots." Dutch puts his feet up towards the fire, chuckling at his own joke. "Oh yes, by God. He shoots.


End file.
